ON BEING
by canadianscanget
Summary: THE ALAISES OF NEAL CAFFREY.  Who is the man, who is ...? Some fun, some history, some angst, some travel. Some getting to know the confidence game.  Some violence, threats & swearing. No slash. Each Ch is complete in itself - alias   story/event.  Enjoy!
1. George Devore

Just a heads up - 1st Fiction, 1st FanFiction, 1st White Collar FanFic  
Lots of reference and report writing. Bad for typos. Spelling sucks. Worse I'll sub in the wrong word altogether.  
So, my apologies in advance for any errors. I went over several times but not Beta'd.  
Reviews are open, please be gentle, let me know what you think, like, don't like, errors, suggestions.

Thanks to Jeff Eastin, WhiteCollar cast/crew and UsaNetwork for sharing with us. For allowing us all some diversion. For others the honing of talents. And letting us mess with their characters.

Couldn't help getting into the aliases. See UsaNetwork for each alias - passports, drivers license.

Each alias leads into a story about Neal under his assumed character name.

Cheers!

* * *

**ON BEING GEORGE DEVORE**

**George Devore was born December 25th, 1976 in Nogales, Arizona, USA.**

George Devore had an unremarkable childhood. His family was financially secure , okay very secure.  
He had attended Chicago's Layola only at his family's insistence.  
At 22 he'd acquired a business degree and a passport.  
He then started travelling world-wide to acquire art works for his family's business, B.B. Atlantic Partners, and for their own private collections.  
Of course he also enjoyed all the perks of travel and an unlimited expense account. As long as he met a few family requirements, he could come and go as he pleased.  
This meant having no specific work schedule, which resulted in a lot of idle time. This could only be filled so much with jet set "art collecting".  
So, he dabbled a little in "reselling questionably acquired works of art" (_aka fencing_) to those in more elite circles. Which lead to "creating" (_aka forging_) supporting documents for works of art.

George Devore was used to living the high life. He looked younger than his given age, with soft messed hair, dark, and twinkling blue eyes.  
He always looked comfortable, relaxed, like he had no cares or concerns.

George Devore was bored, always looking for excitement. He liked liquor, women and anything fast. He stayed away from drugs and the more seedy things of life.  
He liked excitement not danger. Yet excitement often went hand and hand with danger and those seedy things of life. He accepted this as a simple fact of his existence.

* * *

George Devore was Neal Caffrey's first true alias, with all the bells and whistles.  
The history and documents.  
The photographs and memories.  
The trials and tribulations of a young man growing up in Arizona, then attending university in Chicago and working for the family business.

People always wanted the bells and whistles, without them they had no security. When people gave you their history, talked about family, their lives, they wanted something in return. They wanted a means to gauge the person in front of them. They needed the bells and whistles to have confidence in the person before them. And, confidence, after all, was Neal's game.

Now Neal knowing this, had always wondered why everyone was so insistent on knowing his own personal history.

Would it really make any difference as to how they saw him now, in this moment.

Did people find some morbid comfort in knowing that someone's history was abusive, as if that could justify their current behaviour, especially illegal behaviour. Neal knew people with horribly abusive pasts. They didn't use it to justify who they were now, they were successful in their own right. One "friend" now ran a shelter and offered help to others less fortunate. People didn't constantly want to delve into her past, they just accepted her for who she was today.

Or maybe those that questioned would be happy if they could find blame in parents who had given their son everything except the ability to understand consequences for ones actions. But that wasn't Neal either. Neal was who he was right now at this moment, and right now he was George Devore. George Devore took responsibility for every action he ever took and ever would take. Not of course that he ran around admitting to what he did, only a fool would do that and he certainly was far form being a fool.

Neal just didn't blame anyone else for what he did, and certainly not for who he was at this moment.

Neal simply saw no need to explain who he was and why he had become George Devore, or any other assumed alias. At least not until several years later, when for some inexplicable reason he felt overwhelming compelled to confide in a federal agent. The man who would spend several years tracking him and jail him, only to become one of the few people Neal had ever trusted in his life.

Trust was another thing Neal had found vague. Lots of people talked about trust, few actually employed it in its most honest sense.

So, if someone was willing to trust George Devore, Neal was more than willing to oblige and use that misplaced_ trust_ to his advantage.

Neal shivered and pulled himself away from his rambling thoughts.

George Devore stepped away from the edge of the balcony, his hands thrust into his pockets, the soft smile and twinkling eyes catching the attention of the nearest party goers. Their warm smiles and appreciative looks radiating back to Devore. He didn't quit skip down the stairs but he did so with such ease that he looked more like he glided down the circular staircase than stepped. His unabashed confidence soon caught the attention of Devore's mark.

Varos Iapetos Ralli picked up another goblet of wine and walked towards George Devore.

He stopped, glancing up and down the young man, before offering Devore the glass of Limnio.

"You like what you see?"

"And then some," came the coy answer.

George Devore didn't meet the other man's eyes but looked around, as if savouring every thing his eyes came to rest on. In fact Devore was checking out every inch of security. From the HD cameras to the armed, but very low key guards, to the small blinking lights on several upstairs windows. Devore abruptly stopped his savouring review and met the other man's eyes, his face only inches from Varos's.

"It's to easy," George whispered.

Varos pulled back, starring at the stranger so close to him, "To easy for what?"

"To fall in love." George had moved close into Varos again, intentionally letting the man question the statement. Varos narrowed his eyes but George didn't allow him time for a response.

George Devore stepped back, lavishly spreading his arms, almost spinning with his head tipped back.

"... to fall in love with all of this."

Devore continued to gesture at everything and nothing.

"How do you not get lost in all this beauty? Doesn't it make you drunk with desire?"

George's face was again mere inches from Varos', his eyes twinkling, he widened them briefly with a Cheshire Cat grin.

Varos stepped back, looked George Devore up and down again.

Varos broke into a hearty laugh.

"My young friend what do you know of love or desire or beauty?"

Varos suddenly became more serious, lowering his tone, "Or what it takes to obtain such beauty."

George fastened an apologetic look on his face.

Varos quickly threw an arm across George's shoulders and pulled him towards a group of seated men and women.

George Devore had waited for Varos Ralli to move away from this close knit group to mingled with his guests as a dutiful host. He had carefully timed his descent down the stairs with the movements of his mark through the tangle of party goers. Now he was being lead back to Varos' elite group of friends.

George Devore just had to continue to balance his confidence and awe of his surroundings to convince Varos that he was someone interesting, that posed no threat and ultimately could be trusted, in as much as Varos trusted anyone.  
He trusted his few friends.  
He trusted the guards and his elaborate security system.  
He trusted his own judge of character.  
So, Varos would trust that George Devore was safe, confident yes, but young and naive.

George Devore attended several of Varos gatherings. He was also invited to a few more intimate events. Varos watched him intently. His mouth curling only slightly into a whimsical smile at the young mans antics. Devore seemed to captivate every woman he came in contact with, followed by the men who seemed equally captivated by the charismatic young man.

George Devore talked about his youth in Arizona. He liked football, hated basketball. He'd gone to university in Chicago for a business degree. George however preferred sociology, as in the study of every ongoing social gathering and socialite on campus. Now he travelled for his families business. They had several real estate holdings and a few small boutique hotels. George liked the sheer luxury of the hotels, he described them in detail. His audience always asked curious questions. "Where the bed linens Egyptian cotton or silk?" "Did they have king sized beds?" "How big was the tub?" George obliged, his eyes twinkling, his smile inviting, flirtatious but always with a naive innocence.

Varos liked having the vitality of youth around him.  
He liked interesting people.  
He liked George Devore.  
Devore was like having a living piece of art wandering around his estate, a statue come alive for his pleasure and that of his guests.

George Devore new exactly where Varos' taste ran for art and people. Every action, every word was carefully orchestrated to cultivate Varos interest and trust in him.

After three weeks of cavorting, George Devore was a comfortable fixture at the Villa de Palia of Varos Iapetos Ralli.

The fourth week, Varos had a lavish party planned for the evening of the 23rd, his 50th Birthday.  
He also had a lavish present arriving for his birthday.  
He'd tracked the item down after several years of hunting and acquired it only two months ago.  
He'd shown it to Devore the night before his party.

"What do you think?" Varos swept his right hand in front of the painting. His left arm draped casually over George's shoulders.

"Well, uh, it's not very big."

Varos dropped both arms down and stood in front of George glaring.

"Not big, not big, I thought you knew about art?"

"I know about art. How to buy it. How to sell it. What looks right on a wall."

George Devore worked to ensure he sounded a little indignant, hurt not snobbish, in his retort.

Varos continued to glare at him, then burst into laughter. George looked perplexed.

"You know art but you real don't get art, do you?"

"What?" George continued to keep the naive dance in full swing.

"Art isn't just about how it looks on a wall. It's about how it makes you feel, how it reflects on you."

Varos was waving his arms about know, as if his arm flaying would make George comprehend his words better.

George continued with a puzzled look.

Varos moved in close to him.

"It makes me feel very wealthy." He all but purred.

Varos pulled back.

"Now look at the damn thing!" and with that he shoved George within inches of the painting.

Neal looked at every brush stroke, every colour hue, the way the light danced off the woman's face. He smiled at the tiny strand of pearls around her neck, they were barely wisps of white on the board, yet they stood out and sparkled with the same light, He could see the weave of the fabric in her dress, every crinkle, every stitch, the ruffling of lace at her collar. The back ground in perfect synch with the era and a lady of stature. The signature perfectly executed in the corner, di Poggibonsi.

Neal caught himself and quickly brought back George Devore.

"It's pretty," George glanced at Varos.

"It looks classic." Another quick glance.

"French?"

"Oh, God" Varos implored and stated in the same breath.

"I have a degree in business, not art," George implored back.

Varos snorted. "Do you like it?"

"Oh, yes of course" came George Devore's, almost child-like, excited answer.

Varos rolled his eyes and threw his arm back across George's shoulder. He hugged him roughly with the one arm.

"Don't change."

George looked at Varos again questioning.

"So many would say what they think I want to here. You. You just say what pops into your head. No thought. No manipulation. No conniving. Perfection, absolute perfection. Don't change." He gave George another one armed hugged, then pushed at the back of his head tussling his hair. They walked into the main living area both men talking about unrelated topics, laughing, at ease with each other.

George Devore smiled inward, perfection was right, for both him and the painting. Perfectly executed.

Varos party went as planned the following evening. His guests were in awe at the painting, admiring it and Varos taste in fine art. His guests brought varied gifts for Varos, although he had asked for none to be given.

George Devore drank. He was a wonderfully happy drunk. Beaming at those around him. He was forgiven any slights or missteps. The other guest who had come to know him let George wrap himself around them, draped across the shoulders of men and women alike, laughing with bottle in one hand and glass in the other. He extolled Varos' taste in art and ability to throw _one hell of a damn, good party._

George Devore did something he rarely did, he sang. His voice sweet, drunken, he managed to hit every note. Varos raised his glass up to him with an appreciative smile.

When he could barely stand Varos had one of his "associates" put Devore in a guest bedroom. He was out cold before the guard left him, unattended in his drunken slumber.

George Devour spent much of the next day at Varos' Villa de Palia.  
He dined with Varos.  
Swam in the infinity pool that overlooked the Aegean sea.  
He continued to charm the other guest who had remained overnight.

It was late into the night before he returned to his hotel in the centre of Firi, Santorini.

Neal new they would come for him. He was expecting it. As the newest "friend" of Varos Iapetos Ralli, George Devore would be one of their first suspects. He'd been given access to the house and the opportunity had been there. He expected no less than for Varos to immediately question him.

George Devore's hands were yanked roughly behind him, he tried not to flinch.

They'd torn his hotel room apart checking every inch of the room.

They pulled all his belongings apart and cut into a couple of pieces of luggage, the man doing so flipping the knife dangerously close to Devore's face. Devore pulled back, which only served to produce a look of satisfaction from the man.

They kept the conversation short picking up his passport and travel documents.

He was calmly pushed through the hotel lobby into a waiting sedan. Devore was soon at Varos estate.

The man with the knife pushed him down abruptly into a solid wooden chair.

Varos sat across from him.

Varos' stare alone would have broken many a soul.

George kept his eyes fixed on the man with a questioning look.

He knew better than to challenge such men. Men of money and power often had a temper to match their wealth.

Neal knew Varos would send men looking. He knew that if he hoped to escape, he first had to be caught. Makes sense huh. It does with men that have enough money they can chase you halfway around the planet to do more than break your knee caps. So, to escape George Devore had to be caught to convince Varos that he was the naive young charmer he had meet a month ago.

Varos brought a hand sharply across Devore's face.

George looked up at Varos, blood wetting his lower lip.

George kept his eyes fixed on Varos. He had long practised the forlorn look - just enough sadness to suggest he was hurt that Varos would suspect him of anything - enough of a pained look to suggest that he could not believe that Varos would have struck him - with just a hint of questioning of what was going on.

"Why?" Varos demanded. Now standing over Devore

George shook his head "Why what?".

Varos back handed Devore again.

"No questions, I want my painting!"

"I. ... I." George fixed Varos with his questioning look again, "Please. I. ... I. ... Don't understand"

Varos brought his hand up.

George closed his eyes and turned his head to the side. Grimacing. He hoped his actions would convey the right message of innocence.

"Give me his documents".

Varos sifted through the papers. The passport confirmed George Devore's identity. The plane ticket was for tens days from now, business class. The original booking with no changes. Booked nearly 3 months ago. A month before Varos' Poggibonsi painting had arrived.

Varos looked from the papers to Devore and back again.

He sat down with a heavy sigh, throwing the papers on the table next to him.

Dejected, frustrated.

He waived his men off George.

George tentatively looked around at Varos.

Varos sat forward on the edge of his large leather chair.  
He rested his hands on his knees.  
He looked long and hard at George Devore.  
Sizing him up again.

George kept quiet.  
He waited for Varos to give him some indication that he was free to talk.  
That he was no longer suspect.

Varos sighed again.

"Get out." was all he whispered.

He reached around for the papers and threw them at George.

George picked them up hastily.  
He kept his eyes on Varos.  
He opened his mouth once making it seem that he thought better of it.  
He dropped his head and quickly retreated.

Ten days can seem like forever when your waiting to run. The longest starting pistol in the world with a slow motion start.

George Devore made the most of the ten days he had left on the Greek Island of Santorini.  
He played tourist.  
He partied at some of the local clubs.  
He went sight seeing, visiting Oia, Firostefani, and Imerrovigli, enjoying the Cycladic architecture and incredible sunsets, along with the many museums galleries and cafés.  
He even took a boat tour of the volcano of Nea and Palia Kameni.

On day ten George Devore boarded his flight.

George Devore sat in First Class, a flash of a smile and flirtatious chat having garnered him an upgrade.

George Devore sat next to a sedate looking man with glasses.

He made small talk with the man next to him.

When the stewardess brought champagne, George Devore took the bottle.

He nodded to the man next to him, who held his glass up.

George then filled his own glass and raised it up.

He "ka-chinged" his glass to the other man's, smiling like a Cheshire Cat having just caught the Queen of Hearts.

"Cheers Mozzie!"

Mozzie tapped the plastic tube next to him, the three paintings secure inside, and beamed back at Neal.

* * *

.

**Epilog**

Eight months later, Varos Ralli smiled as he sat in front of his perfect painting once again.

A month prior to that the painting had found its way into the hands of a unscrupulous art dealer.  
He offered the painting to Varos, knowing the man's intense interest in the painting.  
Fourteen days ago the dealer was visited by three of Varos' "associates".  
The dealer had been lucky to walk away, as it were, with two broken legs and a shattered wrist and hand. Varos wasn't about to pay for what was already his.

Varos savoured every bit of the painting.

He was initially upset at some of the damage to the back of the board but was relieved to find that none of the value of the painting had been diminished.  
The dealer had assured his "associates" of that after his first leg was broken.

Had Varos really known how much the value of the painting had been diminished his fury would have resulted in the maiming of several "associates".

Varos' painting was truly a study in Renaissance art, as reflected by a perfectly accomplished art forger, one Neal Caffrey.

Why forge a painting you already posses?

Simple, the self proclaimed owner will stop pursuing the painting.

And, ... well, Varos had really been hospitable to George Devore. It was the least Neal could do.

Well, particularly considering that Varos was now the owner of not one, but three, semi-original Neal Caffrey's. The other two had been forged prior to George Devore's arrival on Santorini. They had been carefully switched over the course of George Devore's entrenchment into Varos' realm. The third, and now switched, painting had been an unexpected bonus. It had also been the reason Neal had moved his schedule up by eleven days, which coincided with Varos' birthday bash. The party of course resulted in a highly "intoxicated" George Devore.

Fortunately, George Devore was a wonderfully happy drunk who really didn't get art.

* * *

(for fun check out di Poggibonsi, or the lack there of)


	2. Nicholas Halden

Nicholas Halden was a study in sophistication: The cut of his clothing impeccable, yet subtly casual; The whimsical, soft lilt to his voice; The radiant blue eyes; Each word precise; Each movement fluid. The moment he walked in a room Nicholas Halden commanded everyone's attention.

Today was no exception.

Nicholas Halden walked from his limo into the foyer of the Monte Carlo Grand Casino. It was 2002. He was 23. His presence - clothing, luggage and palmed cash to the concierge - suggested a maturity well beyond that. Nicholas smiled and took in the entire room, which seemed to swirl around his very existence.

_Monte Carlo was one of Neal Caffrey's favourite place in the world. It was vibrant, energetic, charismatic, vivacious, alluring, it was everything that Neal loved and everything that Neal was as a man._

Nicholas Halden sat at the poker tables. He hadn't come to Monte Carlo to gamble.

_Neal didn't like gambling, not with cards, not with money and certainly not with his life. _

_With cards you could have the best hand, play the cards perfectly but luck, luck was always there, and luck always seemed to have the best odds. _

_With money you could make the most honest man lust for more of the very thing you held out to him, money. The odds where more in your favour when money alone was involved, human nature provided for much better odds. _

_With life, Neal just didn't like any odds that played against his life, or anyone else's life for that matter. Neal liked when his odds were well in his favour. _

Nicholas Halden didn't like to gamble but he sat at the poker tables. He wasn't fond of Black Jack, Roulette or Craps. They didn't provide for enough rubbing of elbows. Enough time to size up your opponent. Enough time to linger over their tells. Every hand played became a brush stroke for a portrait of each player at the table: How they bet, how cautious, how reckless; How they trusted themselves; How others could intimidate or manipulate; How they handled winning and loosing. Each hand was a lesson in humanity.

Nicholas Halden actually played across from several famous gamblers. Nicholas had once been very happy to have lost his hand to a now infamous 7 – 2 off suit. He watched men with money and men without walk away elated, frustrated, but more often than not, without their cash in hand, dejected.

Nicholas Halden was in every sense the consummate gambler. As far as anyone was concerned Nicholas had money. He could afford to loose. He could stake another hundred thousand without thought. He gambled for entertainment not profit. Although, he played each hand intently, he passed his losses off with a nonchalant ease, his winnings with reservation and poise.

Nicholas Halden captivated those he played, his skills at poker evident but his demeanour far more appreciated.

So, it was at the Poker tables that Nicholas Halden rubbed elbows.

So, it was at the Poker tables that Nicholas Halden tagged his marks.

More to come – not sure exactly where I'm headed for now. Time to get into a story.


	3. Neal Caffrey

I started with this one but really it should eventual become the last chapter.  
I just couldn't keep hanging onto it and wanted to share. I ended it twice but it just kept rattling around in my head.

***Warning - threatened violence

* * *

ON BEING NEAL CAFFREY

Agent Peter Burke had been staring down at the reports blankly for sometime, but he still didn't have the answers he wanted.

Caffrey had been profiled more than three years ago but several sections were inconclusive.

He wasn't violent, wasn't pathological, wasn't a sociopath – duh.

He had separation issues and trust issues but that wasn't surprising either.

Caffrey had some high moral and ethical standards, if not skewed by the fact that he liked to steal, forge and con.

Caffrey seemed to have an ability to convince people of his qualifications, get hired , become trusted in the blink of an eye then walkout with whatever he fancied.  
Caffrey went well beyond the typical FBI white-collar profile "..._ illegal acts which are characterized by deceit, concealment, or violation of trust_...".  
Neal had made his "acts" an art form in and of themselves, never mind being able to forge great works of art.

Neal hadn't been opportunistic in his actions either, he had very deliberately sought out targets, executing his acts so flawlessly that it had taken Burke three years to obtain one small piece of hard evidence, enough to lay a charge.

The case left Burke frustrated, he just couldn't figure out why someone with Neal Caffrey's I.Q., ability, and charisma couldn't find something on the straight-and-narrow in life. What would drive an obviously intelligent person to do what Caffrey did for at least the last 6 years.

Burke had Caffrey in his custody now for more than 48hrs but the more he had interrogated the young man the more frustrated he had become.

Caffrey adamantly denied any involvement with any of the crimes he was _alleged _ to have committed.  
Burke and the other members of his team couldn't even manage to get him to make an exculpatory statement.  
He never once offered anything suggesting an alibi, a witness, nothing physical to support his denial, nothing that could be verified and then turned back on him.  
Nor one shred of self-incrimination.

In the process, Caffrey had almost lead him to believe that his antics were nothing more than the bored outcome of a spoiled brat. Another front.

Burke had noted several times that when questioning became tense Caffrey would start pushing buttons to break that tension.  
That kept twigging in Burke's mind.  
Pushing when things get tense is typical of abuse cycles.  
Knowing when the physical abuse was coming by initiating it, is better than having that tension keep building.  
It was living in that constant fear that became the torture but ... push the buttons and you break the tension, you gain what little control you can.

Burke knew that Caffrey always wanted to be in control of himself and the situation.  
Burke just couldn't figure how someone with Caffrey's personality and zest for life could have been born from anything abusive.

Burke hadn't been able to find much about Caffrey's youth,or his family for that matter. The profiling had done little to fill in any gaps. So, the pieces just weren't coming together for Burke and he was frustrated. Today was his last opportunity to interrogate Caffrey, He knew he wouldn't get any type of admission from him this day, anymore than in the last two days. Burke instead felt he could use the time to delve more into Caffrey's personality. The outcome might be different, but Burke needed to know his suspects just as much as Caffrey needed to know his marks.

Burke had come to know the young man over the last three years.

Burke smiled.

Caffrey had actually sought of grown on him.

Of the many suspects he'd chased around the country-side, Caffrey had been nothing short of charming and hospitable, and certainly enigmatic.

Burke almost wished he hadn't caught the elusive Neal Caffrey but if there was one thing that Burke did extremely well it was catch his quarry.

Burke stood-up, closed the file and walked to the interview room.

* * *

Neal Caffrey was seated in the FBI interview room. 10x10 with a solid wooden table and three anything but comfortable chairs.

Caffrey was handcuffed to the front of the table.  
The cuffs weren't standard issue.  
They were separated by a solid metal bar, which made it near impossible to access the locking mechanism with one's hands.  
A second overlapping clasp made access to the lock even more difficult, forget about a pick held in the mouth – wasn't gonna happen.  
Caffrey had been "examining" them for more than two hours now.  
Only in as much as they were the only thing in the room of any interest.  
Caffrey let out a sigh just as the door swung open.

Agent Peter Burke walked in.

He said nothing.

Caffrey said nothing.

It was actually unusual as Burke had greeted Caffrey, almost cheerfully, every time he'd entered the room.

Burke walked over to the closed monitored camera and held up his hand.  
He opened and closed it twice for a ten count.

Caffrey watched, perplexed at the agents behaviour.  
Burke new that Jones was on the other side with the monitor on record.  
He'd knew the young agent would understand and flip the recorder off.  
He knew he'd step outside and ensure no one interrupted.

Burke turned back to Caffrey.

Still without a word.

He took his jacket off and placed it on the back of the chair opposite Caffrey.

He smoothed the jacket across the shoulders.

Caffrey was more perplexed by the deliberate and quiet actions of Burke.

He said nothing watching every movement intently.

Burke then unbuttoned his shirt cuffs and rather methodically rolled them up.

He kept his focus on rolling his sleeves up but just caught Caffrey's reactions in his periphery.

Caffrey's had pulled back ever so slightly.

It would be Burke's next action that would throw Caffrey completely.

Burke now looked directly at Caffrey ensuring he had the young man's attention.  
He knew he did anyway from the moment he had walked in the room (In fact he'd had it from the moment Caffrey had first met him 2 years earlier).

Burke unbuckled his belt, slipped it loose, folded it and laid it on the table.

Caffrey had been on his feet the moment Burke had pulled the belt loose.

His eyes wide and his mouth agape. He swallowed.

Burke was holding the belt on the table and had started to come around the table.

Caffrey moved as far as he could from Burke but the cuffs cut into his wrists, his retreat futile at best.  
Caffrey also realized to late that his best option might not have been to stand.

"You can't." Caffrey breathed out more than anything.

"I can." was Burke's simple reply. He hadn't moved past the corner of the table.

"NO. No. You can't." It was as though Caffrey was stating an irrefutable truth, while trying to convince himself of that truth.

Burke moved around the corner of the table. The finger tips of his left hand touching the table close to the belt.  
He noted Caffrey shudder, a quick glance to his hand and then back to meet Burke's eyes.

Caffrey's breathing was starting to become laboured. He shook his head back-and-fourth. His eyes pleading.

"Peter. Peter. You can't." The words were now more a plea than a statement of fact. "Please."

Burke just stared at him.

Caffrey felt like Burke's eyes were burning into him.  
He wanted it to stop.  
He wanted to run.  
He fought at memories that were trying to tumble out.  
He was trembling now.  
His breath short.

"Peter, you can't do this. Not you."

"At what point did you think you had the right to call me Peter?" The words were blunt and cold.

Caffrey was taken aback.  
He swallowed again.  
His lips parting and closing without word, just the intake of a quick breaths.  
His head moving back-and-forth in a soft motion of "no".  
He closed is eyes hoping that in doing so everything would just cease.  
He opened his eyes again slowly, blinking at Burke.

A whisper of "Not you. Not you." finally left his lips. His head was down now, still moving soft from side-to-side.

It was in that moment that Peter realized something more about how he had just pushed the young man.  
He still only had part of his much sought answers. At some point Caffrey had without doubt been abused. His actions were beyond surprise or shock. Beyond a simple fear of being struck.

However, Caffrey's actions went well past his answer, Peter realized that Neal was completely stricken by the thought that Peter would hit him.  
He was trembling, his face almost ashen, his breath short but his simple words had cut into Peter – _Not You_.  
As though Neal would accept anyone else beating him.  
Peter could almost hear the agony in Neal's plea.  
He wasn't pleading not to be hit.  
He was pleading very specifically for _Peter_ not to hit him.

It was in that moment that Peter felt the guilt hit him.  
What right did he have to put Neal through this just to satisfy his curiosity?  
He felt that Neal had placed some unbeknownst trust into him.  
That he had just ripped at that trust.

Peter stepped closer to Neal.

He could see him shudder again, waiting for an unseen blow to hit.

Neal didn't try to move away.

He couldn't, the cuffs still bond him to the table, but he no longer pulled into them.

Peter reached out and clutched Neal's arm.

Neal cringed. His body collapsing inward with a defeated shudder.

"I'm not going to hit you," Peter tried to sound as reassuring as possible, "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done this."

Neal was still trembling.  
Unresponsive to Peter's words.  
Waiting like an animal caught in a trap.

"Neal. ... Neal." Peter raised his voice up.

Neal brought his head up, his blue eyes glossy.  
He looked intently at Burke trying to fathom what was taking place.

"Neal, I was looking for..." Burke paused ,as Neal closed his eyes, his head tilted slight back.  
The action brought tears to the far corners of Neal's eyes.  
Neal let his breath go, still shaky.

"..Please don't?" Peter whispered.

It was in that moment that Peter found himself out of character, pulling the young man in towards him.  
Peter wrapped one arm around Neal the other still gripping Neal's arm.  
Neal tilted his head down and pressed into Peter's chest.  
Peter brought the hand up that had been holding Neal's arm, and cradled the back of Neal's head.

Peter's was reassuring, "It's okay Neal. It's okay."

* * *

Jones had walked back into the monitoring room to check on his boss.  
He watched the exchange between the two men.  
He had wondered at the belt but didn't question he boss' actions.  
He had known Peter now for four years and trusted in his judgement.  
He also knew that Burke wouldn't use violence but a rouse was another matter.

He smiled watching the compassion that Burke showed Caffrey. He knew that Burke's compassion was one of the things that set him apart from other agents. Some questioned Burke's level of compassion but it always seemed to work in his favour.

Jones sought to emulate his boss: to find the good in the people around him, not to judge others, and to know everything you could about a case and suspect. Burke was good, he knew what he was doing. Jones walked back out, he need to ensure no one walked in on Burke.

* * *

Burke stood with Neal for several minutes until Neal pulled back.

Wiping his face against his shoulder, Neal looked at Burke, blinking, not sure what to say next.

Then he shook his head back-and-forth, now with a look of admonishment.

"Why? Why would you do this?" It was a simple question from Neal with anything but a simple answer.

Peter now really wasn't sure why he had sought to push Neal to this point.  
He wasn't sure what he was supposed to do with this or any response he got.  
He really, really wasn't sure what he was supposed to do with this response .  
He now saw Neal in a whole new light.  
No, he now saw _Caffrey, _ he needed to re-establish that professional distance.  
He couldn't find that distance though, he'd stepped over the bounds, the young man was Neal, he was Peter, there was no stepping back.

Neal was still gazing at him, questioning. Then sadness rippled across the man's face, fleeting. Neal pulled his head back, cocking it slightly with that annoying, incredulous _What? _look. He waited for an answer. Peter seemed lost in thought.

"That's kinda of a nasty perversion."

Peter was pulled out of his thoughts at Neal's flippant remark.

There it was the push, the tension breaker.  
It came however when Neal should have known that Peter wouldn't hit him.  
Peter suspected that it now had more to do with an attempt to emotionally distance himself.  
The same way Peter wanted to keep professional, Neal wanted to keep his emotions in check. It was hard to play someone with your heart on your sleeve.

"Perversion?" Peter shot his own quizzical look back at Neal. His lips curling up ever so slightly.

Neal caught the start of the wry smile.  
He laughed.  
"I'm not going to say anything, but I promise to send cards for Christmas, if you promise to keep it casual."  
Neal all but beamed at Peter.

"Your annoying Caffrey." Peter turned then.

He picked up his belt and calmly threaded it through the loops, his back to Caffrey.

He rolled down his sleeves, brushing the creases out and buttoning the cuffs back up.

He was sedate in his actions, as though he was by himself calmly getting dressed for the day.

He picked his suit jacket up and shrugged it on.

He smoothed the collar around before he looked back at Caffrey.

"Casual?" It was as much a statement as a question.

Neal's blue eyes danced around Peter's face.  
They narrowed slightly.  
Then as quickly smiled.  
Those twinkling blue eyes were smiling at him like nothing had happened.

Peter walked to the door. He put his hand on the door knob and paused.

"If you plead guilty to the bond forgery the sentence will be much lighter."

Neal's answer was a soft, simple, "I can't."

Peter looked back at the young man. The sadness had returned. Neal cocked his head to the side again and shrugged his shoulders. Peter knew he would never admit to anything. He couldn't, it would be like admitting to so many other things. To admitting to who he was in reality. Breaking the facade would be like breaking the man. Peter never wanted to push on that wall again. Maybe remove a few bricks, put a window in, maybe a door.

Peter smiled as he walked out the room.  
He'd met Neal.  
He liked Neal, even if he could be annoying at times.  
Okay, most of the time.

* * *

Burke almost walked into Jones in the hallway.

Jones smiled at him.

"How much?" Burke asked.

Jones was surprised but he shouldn't have been.

"Just enough to know you can be a cold-hearted ... ," Jones smiled.

"You can have the Marshall's pick him up after lunch."

Jones shot a questioning look at Burke.

"If we don't, he won't get anything to eat until after 5pm, and then only if he's processed through by that time."

Jones nodded, smiling, Burke never stopped thinking ahead, even about the small stuff.

* * *

Caffrey's trial had been brief.  
There was lots of circumstance but little evidence.  
There was however enough to convict Neal.

Sara Ellis had testified. She was peeved all her skill had resulted in nothing more than being able to provide for Neal's whereabouts for three months and not the Raphael Painting she believed Neal pilfered. The three months tied into the bond forgery perfectly and sealed Neal's fate for the next four years.

Peter had sat in on much of the trial intently watching Neal, who seemed disinterested except for occasionally glancing up at Ellis, who shot him icy stares each time he did so.

Neal's hands often strayed over to his defence counsel's pen and paper.

He at times would pass a note over to his counsel.

Peter suspected that Neal spent most of the time sketching.

Peter had moved over to the defence table as the trial had wrapped up for the day.  
He'd turned the papers Neal had left behind for a better look, only to be admonished by the defence counsel, who scooped them up into his brief case.

Neal who was being searched head-to-toe before being returned to holding had noted the exchange.

The following day Neal had turned as the trial was wrapping up and caught Burke's attention.

Peter had moved forward as Neal was being ushered out.

Neal held out a folded piece of paper to him.

The sheriff's becoming annoyed by Neal's lagging, grabbed him sharply, as Peter reached out for the paper.

Neal tried to keep his eye on Burke as they yanked him away.

Burke unfolded the paper, a smile widening across his face, he looked up to find Neal beaming back at him from the far-side of the court room.  
Those twinkling blue eyes laughing, apparently aloof of the circumstances.  
Hands ran up and down every part of Caffrey, fingers running through his hair, his mouth checked, then the shackles on his ankles were attached to a belt and handcuffs and out the courtroom he went.  
Peter looked back down at the paper.  
He shook his head at the beautifully detailed winter scene, a note precisely scrolled at the bottom - _Will have to do for now, can't get out to buy cards. N.C._


End file.
